


Reminders

by rairai



Category: Shameless (US)
Genre: AU, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Gallavich, Hurt, Love, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-06
Updated: 2015-03-06
Packaged: 2018-03-16 14:33:18
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 875
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3491894
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rairai/pseuds/rairai
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>AU: Mickey suddenly disappears in the same manner as Jimmy-Steve, unable to say goodbye to Ian.<br/></p>
            </blockquote>





	Reminders

**Author's Note:**

> Note: this is unedited bc I'm impatient af!!!! so pls ignore any errors etc. :)  
> also, this is my first ever fanfic! so please suggest improvements or let me know your thoughts :)  
> tumblr: carllgallagher

The icy air whips against his face as he struggles against the handcuffs. They've chafed his skin red raw and he's starting to lose feeling in his fingers. Every time he's lashed out, they've been screwed tighter, and now he's unashamedly wailing in pain.

"Shut the fuck up, Milkovich," growls the huge guy to his left, and then Mickey is being pushed along the dock, and he's almost perversely relieved that it's actually happening, that there are no more opportunities to do anything about it, that now he has to do what he's told and keep his head down and stop thinking for himself.

Except he can't. His mind is swirling with thoughts of Ian and what he will do and think and feel, and Mickey almost throws up right then and there, like a helpless child. He considers making a run for it, but knows Ian would rather an absent boyfriend than a dead one. Even if he has no idea where Mickey is or why he left - or why the fuck he didn't say goodbye. Mickey wishes he had known in time to give Ian the answers, but as he steps onto the ship and is swiftly knocked out with a bat to his head, he knows it's far too late.

***

Ian wakes buck naked, sweaty sheets twisted tightly around him in a parody of Mickey’s absent body. He rubs his eyes, sits up. Early sunlight streams through the dirty window, casting fidgety shadows on Mickey’s side of the bed. Still half-asleep, caught between desire and reality, Ian runs his hand along the empty mattress where dust motes have gathered, unshifting, on its abandoned surface.

It has been eight weeks and two days since Ian last saw Mickey. And now, seconds after waking, reality hits him and horribly, suddenly, he remembers this fact. Every morning, he is reminded anew. And it seems to hurt more each time, sucking the air out of his chest in one sudden, desperately painful pull and leaving him with a dull, throbbing ache in his ribcage. A cold, unforgiving ache that doesn’t build, doesn’t overflow. Doesn’t let him feel. Just reminds him.

For long minutes, he tries to accept the pain. Tries to push it down his spine and his legs and out through his feet. Balls his fists and punches his own stomach, hard, anything to suffocate the aching, the reminder that he is completely alone.

But he isn’t alone, he just feels it constantly, insufferably. Fiona is downstairs, feeding Liam his breakfast. Carl and Debbie have left for school but they’ll be back, all talk and excited laughter. Lip will always be on the other end of a phone call. Ian has his therapist, although he’s mostly stable now, with a job and an income. Ian had figured he’d move out as soon as he could and ask Mickey to join him. And Mickey would have given him the eyebrows and pretended to think of it for all of two seconds before admitting he loved the idea - in a roundabout way. Maybe he would have said: “Fuck knows I need to get out of this shithole. Your family’s really starting to get on my fucking nerves.”

But Ian would have known what he’d meant.

Just like he’d known, for example, that Mickey’s _fuck u-up_ tattoo could be endearing, _seductive_ even, when its wearer was grazing those inked fingers along Ian’s neck and then, gently, down his arm to meet his hand. Where others saw a nameless, faceless criminal, another child of the harsh South Side, Ian saw those blue, blue eyes and the way they glazed over when Ian whispered Mickey’s name.

He’d also known that Mickey loved and needed him, long before he’d said the words. He’d told Ian with long, desperate kisses and uncharacteristically gentle touches. Mostly, he’d just told him by being around, always keeping close, as if fearlessly protecting Ian from the unpredictable cruelty of their little world.

But Mickey couldn’t protect Ian from this indescribable aching. Mickey had caused it, and now Ian is enraged.

Ian grimaces and pushes himself off the mattress, rubs his eyes angrily, grabs clumsily for his running shoes and a fresh pair of pants. Jogs down the stairs with a smile on his face.

Fiona looks up, eyes wide. “Ian? How are you feeling this morning?”

"I’m okay," he breathes, needing desperately to reach the door. He breaks into a sprint.

***

It’s been two years, eight months and three days since Mickey last saw Ian. On the fourth day, a black car glides up to a gutter on the South Side, smooth and silent, edges glinting in the miserable glow of a street lamp. The passenger peers through the grimy window at the rundown Gallagher residence, its drooping roof and precarious stairs exactly how he left them.

He imagines Ian inside, wondering where his boyfriend has been. Imprisoned on a ship for two years. On the run for the rest. Ian would be spared the gory details.

The passenger opens the car door and nearly steps out. But it’s been too long. Ian would have forgotten him by now.

"Mickey?" asks the driver carefully.

 _Tomorrow_ , Mickey promises himself. He turns to the driver. “Take me home.”


End file.
